ed to be conquerors.

As soon as they had got out into the garden, Madame Dambreuse, taking
Cisy aside, chided him for his awkwardness. When she caught sight of
Martinon, she sent him away, and then tried to learn from her future
nephew the cause of his witticisms at the Vicomte's expense.

"There's nothing of the kind."

"And all this, as it were, for the glory of M. Moreau. What is the
object of it?"

"There's no object. Frederick is a charming fellow. I am very fond of
him."

"And so am I, too. Let him come here. Go and look for him!"

After two or three commonplace phrases, she began by lightly disparaging
her guests, and in this way she placed him on a higher level than the
others. He did not fail to run down the rest of the ladies more or less,
which was an ingenious way of paying her compliments. But she left his
side from time to time, as it was a reception-night, and ladies were
every moment arriving; then she returned to her seat, and the entirely
accidental arrangement of the chairs enabled them to avoid being
overheard.

She showed herself playful and yet grave, melancholy and yet quite
rational. Her daily occupations interested her very little--there was an
order of sentiments of a less transitory kind. She complained of the
poets, who misrepresent the facts of life, then she raised her eyes
towards heaven, asking of him what was the name of a star.

Two or three Chinese lanterns had been suspended from the trees; the
wind shook them, and lines of coloured light quivered on her white
dress. She sat, after her usual fashion, a little back in her armchair,
with a footstool in front of her. The tip of a black satin shoe could be
seen; and at intervals Madame Dambreuse allowed a louder word than
usual, and sometimes even a laugh, to escape her.

These coquetries did not affect Martinon, who was occupied with Cecile;
but they were bound to make an impression on M. Roque's daughter, who
was chatting with Madame Arnoux. She was the only member of her own sex
present whose manners did not appear disdainful. Louise came and sat
beside her; then, yielding to the desire to give vent to her emotions:

"Does he not talk well--Frederick Moreau, I mean?"

"Do you know him?"

"Oh! intimately! We are neighbours; and he used to amuse himself with me
when I was quite a little girl."

Madame Arnoux cast at her a sidelong glance, which meant:

"I suppose you are not in love with him?"

The young girl's face r